Denver (2 page)

“You’re damned fortunate,” Tigre said bitterly, a tight knot in his chest, and Silas’ head snapped around.

“Sorry. You must have had a loss.”

“Yes, I did,” Tigre admitted in milder tones. “So where are you getting this fortune?”

“I’m trying the California gold fields.”

They rode in silence, each lost in thought while Tigre
relished his freedom. By the time two more days had passed, Tigre felt he and Silas were close friends. Silas rode during the day with a bandanna high on his neck, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low, and gloves on his hands, trying to keep sheltered from the sun. They had passed through a small town and had left the extra horses behind.

They halted at a creek. “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m going to turn back south,” Tigre said.

“Sure you don’t want to come along to Sacramento? There are riches for the pickin’, like apples off a tree.”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll ride to Texas. My ma’s there in San Antonio with my brother.”

“You’ll have to ride through Apache and Comanche land in New Mexico Territory a long time to get to Texas.”

“I’ll be careful. Thanks, Silas. I owe you my life. I heard those buzzards talking. They were letting me live because it was easier to travel that way. When we got close to the first town to where they could collect their reward, they were going to shoot me.”

“Glad you’re free. Good luck, Tigre.”

“Same to you, Silas.” They shook hands and parted, Tigre wheeling his sorrel to the southeast, Silas continuing to the northwest.

Less than two hours later, Tigre saw a cloud of dust on the horizon as a large number of riders approached. He changed direction to ride back the way he had come. Within the hour the riders drew near enough that he could see the long, flowing black hair and copper-colored chests of Apache warriors.

He retraced his journey, riding hard, knowing he had to get to a town. It was another hour before he could look over his shoulder and see the cloud of dust diminishing. When he reached the place where he had parted with Silas, he turned north, deciding to take that course out of New Mexico Territory, circling down through Indian Territory to Texas. An hour later he spotted a riderless horse ahead. When his gaze swept the land, he saw a body stretched on the ground. On closer inspection, he saw it wasn’t a white horse like
Silas’ mount, but a gray. Tigre urged his horse forward and in minutes he had dismounted, walking to a man who had been beaten badly. Tigre knelt beside him, holding a flask of water to his mouth.

“Mister. Here.”

The man’s eyes fluttered.

“What happened?”

“Renegades.” His voice was a croak.

Tigre frowned and glanced around. “Did you see a pale man?”

Brown eyes gazed up at him and the man bobbed his head a fraction. “Eustice. They took him. He’s probably dead now.”

“How far ahead are they?” Tigre asked, glancing into the distance. The man’s head lolled on his arm. Scowling and swearing under his breath, Tigre tried to find a pulse. Feeling none, he took the man’s horse, mounted, and urged his own horse to a gallop.

Within a quarter of an hour he heard shouts. He rode closer and dismounted, crawling up a bluff to gaze below. The renegades were tormenting Silas, who looked near death. His arms were tied to tree branches, his weight sagging while three men inflicted wounds.

Tigre drew his six-shooter and aimed, waiting for a moment when Silas would be in the clear. With three quick shots he picked off the outlaws before any of them had time to draw. He slid down the bluff, running to Silas. Tigre’s heart pounded in fear, because Silas was limp, hanging by his wrists. With a slash of his knife, Tigre cut him down and knelt to feel his pulse, which fluttered erratically.

“Silas! Dammit, Silas, I’m here!” Tigre shouted. “Live, man!” He ran to his horse, yanking out the flask of water to tend to Silas’ wounds. Working swiftly, he hacked down thin saplings to make a travois. That night Tigre killed two rabbits and boiled them to get some broth for the still-unconscious Silas.

The next day, when he still couldn’t rouse Silas, Tigre’s desperation grew. The sun was high overhead when he spotted smoke curling into the sky, and in a few more minutes he came over a rise to see a town.
He found a woman who would rent them a room and tend Silas’ injuries. She put poultices on his wounds, telling Tigre what to feed him. During the night Tigre sat beside the bed, spooning water between Silas’ swollen lips. Tigre slept lightly, and he stirred when he heard Silas whispering his name.

“You son of a bitch, get well,” Tigre said with joy.

Silas tried to smile and failed, while Tigre grinned with relief.

It was two weeks before Silas had enough strength to mount a horse. His ribs were cracked, but no bones were broken.

“Tigre, come with me to look for gold,” he said one morning. He lolled on a sagging iron bed, his white hair tangled, his white cotton shirt rumpled.

Tigre sat in a wooden chair at a table while he counted his money. “I did all right last night.”

“You’re an absolute natural at faro. I guess you don’t need to hunt for gold.”

“I got paid yesterday too.”

“You always surprise me when you talk about that job.”

“I like building houses. I used to be good with a hammer when I helped Pa. I’m learning with Enrique. I’m almost tempted to stay right here for a time and keep on building.” He grinned, shoving a cheroot to the corner of his mouth, squinting as the smoke curled upward in front of his face. “I can see what I accomplished at the Oro Cantina too.
Es muy grande
.”

Silas laughed. “Where did you learn to speak the lingo?”

“I’m Tigre Castillo, remember? My father had a Spanish heritage. Two hundred years ago the Spanish explored and settled in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.”

“Come with me,” Silas urged, returning to his argument. “Men are finding gold all over the West. I promised Mary I would strike a vein and come home a millionaire, rich enough to give her a life of ease.”

“Mary must be the most beautiful woman on this earth. I’ve never seen a man so damned loyal.”

“She is. She has the biggest green—”

“I know. The biggest, greenest eyes that make you feel as if you’re tumbling into a lily pond. Red hair like flames dancing in the night, skin like peaches in the spring, a waist so tiny you can circle it with your fingers and have room left over,” Tigre said dryly, stacking coins.

“That’s right,” Silas said, staring into space, his voice wistful.

“There’s a stage going through tomorrow, and they’ll take mail to Sacramento. You could write to her.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t write well.”

“Well, I can write. Tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it.”

Silas ran his slender fingers over the covers. “No. Mary’s accustomed to not hearing from me. She knows I don’t write.”

“She might lose interest.”

“Not my Mary.”

“Aw, hell, Silas, you ought to have some fun in your life. Come down to the Oro Cantina and let me show you the girls. There’s Lolita and her friends Carmen and Cayena, and I’ll tell you, they would make you forget all about Marvelous Mary.”

“Impossible. Mary is prettier, more fun, more intelligent.”

Tigre laughed. “I’ll give you that one! When it comes to brains, don’t count on the cantina girls.”

“Mary is sweeter.”

For an instant Tigre’s smile vanished while he thought of Melissa Hatfield, whom he had left behind in Albuquerque. He still carried the gold ring she had returned.
Sweet
. Melissa was sweet, intelligent, and beautiful, and it hurt badly when he thought about her. “Dammit,” he swore, and scooped up the money. “I’m going to the bank.”

“Tigre, come with me when I go.”

“Maybe I will,” he answered, thinking he might cause his brother’s family trouble if he went to Texas. He’d already had two bad encounters with bounty
hunters, and he didn’t expect them to be the last. He gazed around the small, sparsely furnished room with its crudely made wooden furniture and bare earthen floor. “What’s a grubstake cost?”

“You’ve got more than enough,” Silas said dryly. “I’ve got it down to where I figure twenty-five dollars is all you’ll need. Rubber hip boots, a couple of woolen blankets; you have your rifle, pistol, and ammo. You have plates and eating utensils. You’ll need a shovel, a miner’s pick, a gold pan, and food. That’ll get you started.”

“You know what folks around here call us?”

Silas grinned. “I can’t imagine.”

“
Gringos pálidos
. Pale gringos.”

Silas laughed. “You’re a damned sight less pale than I am.”

“Next to most of the locals, we’re both oddities.”

Silas chuckled. “Sometimes that works to my benefit.”

“So I’ve noticed. They think that’s why I’m winning at faro, that I’ve got supernatural powers.”

“Maybe word will get out to the bounty hunters, and they’ll leave you alone.”

“Most bounty hunters aren’t scared of anything, including the supernatural,” Tigre said, scooping his winnings into a bag. He saw the curious gleam in Silas’ eyes and knew his friend was too polite to ask questions. Tigre jingled the bag. “This goes to the bank. I always keep my money in the bank until I move on. I’ve got my cash under another name.” He paused, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I’ve been thinking about it. I might start using another name all the time.”

“Hell, that’s not so bad. Lots of men have done that.”

“I didn’t make much of a change: Dan Castle,” he said, tucking his blue chambray shirt into his faded denim pants.

Silas knotted his forehead a moment as if considering the name, and he nodded. “That’s fine. Want me to call you Dan instead of Tigre?”

Tigre nodded. “I feel peculiar with it right now. I might not answer you, but I ought to start getting accustomed to it. If the wrong person hears you calling me Tigre, or word gets around about Tigre Castillo, it’ll be easy for bounty hunters to pick up my trail.” He knotted a bandanna around his neck, hiding the old scar.

“Okay, Dan Castle it is. I’ll start gathering up supplies. Go to the bank and then to work.”

“Here’s money for my share of the supplies,” Tigre said. Then he left, striding down the wide dusty street lined with adobe structures. Saloons were more prevalent than any other businesses.

Tigre climbed rafters, nailing boards in place, watching Enrique when he could. While it wasn’t sheep ranching, his first love, he liked the work in the open, using his hands. There were moments he was tempted to stay until he knew more about building. And Enrique Cordoba had already made Tigre a good offer.

They waited three more weeks before Silas felt ready to travel. At dawn one December morning they left town, heading north, and in another week they stopped in Sacramento to get the rest of their supplies. Facing the prospect of winter in the mountains, they decided to stay in Sacramento, where Tigre went to work for another builder, discovering techniques and styles that were far more intricate than those used by Enrique Cordoba. In late February they left town with two pack burros trailing behind them. By now Tigre was accustomed to the name Dan Castle.

“We’re looking for placer gold,” Silas said, pronouncing the word in a rasp, “plass-er.”

“What’s placer gold?” Dan asked, thinking of the dance-hall girl he had left behind.

Silas ducked his head beneath a low-hanging limb. “Placers are deposits washed down from a vein. It’s ore on top of the ground, covered only by a thin layer of soil or a stream. For some reason—erosion or rivers—lodes get exposed. The gangue, worthless minerals mixed with ore, will crumble, and rain or melting
snow will carry it downhill. The best placers should be in foothills where swift-running mountain streams level off and drop their treasure. Watch for gravel bars or transverse ridges, rim rock protruding from streams, anything that becomes an obstacle where specks of ore will lodge.”

“You can see it?”

“No. In that pack your burro is carrying is a pan. You scoop up dirt and swish it around in the water. The dirt will wash out, and hopefully you’ll find a scad of gold remaining.”

“Sounds like hunting a diamond in a gravel pit,” Dan said dubiously.

“Wait until you find your first nugget.”

“Bucking the tiger might be more certain,” Dan rejoined, thinking about his faro winnings.

When they reached Stockton, rumors of gold began to crop up. Six weeks later they found a prospector panning for gold in a clear stream. They headed east, camping by a swift-running stream in the Sierra Mountains. Both of them worked, icy water sloshing over Dan’s hands until they became numb while he fanned out the drag, looking for color.

Once he gazed down and his breath caught as bits of shiny rocks glittered in the sunlight.

“Silas! Silas!”

Silas dropped a pick and came running through the middle of the creek, slipping and splashing until he gazed down at Dan’s find, and his hopeful expression faded. He bit on the stone.

“Sorry. Pyrite. Fool’s gold, my friend. Look at it. It winks in the sunlight. Gold always looks the same from any angle; this doesn’t. Bite on it. Gold doesn’t feel the same, and gold won’t break. Go back to work.”

East of the Rockies, a growing town lay nestled at the junction of Cherry Creek and the Platte River. Patches of snow dotted the roofs and streets, smoke spiraled from chimneys, and lights burned brightly in the windows. Music drifted out from the city hall, where a town celebration was under way. Inside, banners draped from the walls, festooned with red bunting, proclaimed: “Denver City and Auraria United; Denver born April 1860” and “Happy Sixth Anniversary, Denver!”

On a platform made by planks on blocks of wood, fiddlers tapped their booted toes while they spun out a song. Dancers swirled around the floor as older couples sat watching. Women congregated in clusters at the south end of the room, and men gathered beside the serving tables at the north end. Heat came from two glowing potbellied stoves.

Dressed in blue gingham, Mary Katherine O’Malley gazed over her dance partner’s shoulder while his brow furrowed in concentration. He stepped on her toe.